to shelter is to protect

the house is a whirlwind of a mess. 
a colliding cacophony of messy needs and thinking minds. 
trumpeting and outstretched lanky limb-ed boys 
clamoring over couches and flying footballs through 
the front door. a mess is a mess is a mess.

the house is a whirlwind of busy. 
a thumping thudding of fastness, of rushed wrongs 
pushed about in the wind. of the quiet trampled underfoot
and newly forged dreams fleeting then forgotten in the need 
to keep apace. a busy bee is a busy boy is a busy bee. 

my home is a whirlwind of hope, and salt air, and sand.
of crushed shell crabs picked apart by gulls, and tiny clams
littered across the beach, dug up by baby hands
and buckets of sandcastles, of tiny things scooching 
back into their sandy beds.  

my home is the whirlwind of hope in the salt air and the blowing sand. it lies just behind the dune, sheltered from the crashing sea in hurricane high winds, hiding from the beating drum beat of the rain and the sing-song sobbing night. it it the soft cup of my hands overlaying hearts, scooping up souls, writing of the sandcastles laid in stone upon the protected pier of my house.